


Here You Come Again

by RageSeptember



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jim Moriarty lives!, M/M, Post Reichenbach, damn you mofftiss, most likely AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:14:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RageSeptember/pseuds/RageSeptember
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While investigating a suspicious death in a London suburb, John and Sherlock find themselves face to face with a certain Mr. Moran. As it turns out, Sherlock is not the only one who knows how to fake a suicide...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This three-part fic was originally posted on tumblr. The last two chapters will see some more or less extensive tweaking before being added here, and I might even write more installments. We'll see.

“Maybe they’re not home,” John suggested. “Most people would be at work at this time of day.” It was early afternoon, and the street in front of the newly build, simple-but-oh-so-very-obviously-expensive-as-hell two storey house was deserted. 

“Of course they’re home,” Sherlock replied, without turning his head and without breaking off banging on the door. 

“Ah. Obvious, is it?” 

“Very. The – “ But before he could launch into an explanation, the door was yanked open to reveal a tall blonde man in his thirties. “Ah, so someone _is_ in then. Terribly sorry to bother you, but I’ll need to inspect your kitchen.” 

At first, the man made no reply. If he was surprised to find two strange men on his doorstep demanding access to his home, he did not show it. In fact, his face remained completely blank; carefully so, John thought. 

“You’re Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,” he eventually said. “Why would you need to see my kitchen? We’ve had no crimes here.” 

“Ah, but the poor lady across the street was found dead in her car the other morning. No signs of violence, but the car was locked – and the keys gone.” 

The man’s pale eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. “I hadn’t heard of that.” 

“Didn’t make the news. Now, all I need is to take a quick peek through your kitchen window, and then we’ll be gone.” 

The man hesitated, appraising them. “Just a quick peek? That’s all?” 

“That’s plenty,” Sherlock assured him with a smile John knew he meant to be friendly, but which merely looked condescending.   

For a moment, John thought the man would still refuse to let them in, but then he nodded curtly. “All right. Come on in.” He turned and walked ahead of them into the house. Though tall and remarkably muscular, he moved gracefully, in perfect control of his body. There was a stillness to him, a guarded quiet that brought to mind the image of a wild animal, ready to pounce. 

In baggy cargo pants, a white tank top and no socks he was not someone John would have expected to find in this slightly up-market and unjustifiably snobby suburb mainly populated by well to do couples working in London. _On the battlefield, however…_

They entered the kitchen, which was very spacious, very modern and very well-equipped. Apparently someone in this household liked to cook. Sherlock immediately crossed the room to take his long-desired look through the window, while John remained just inside the door with the house’s owner. The man had crossed his arms and was leaning back against the wall in a show of what John felt absolutely convinced was feigned nonchalance. 

“Lovely house,” John offered somewhat lamely. “It’s very kind of you to let us in.” He felt immediately absurd for saying it; kind was not at all the first word he’d choose to describe the man next to him. 

“Don’t mention it.” The other kept his eyes trained on Sherlock, who was moving back and forth in front of the window, looking for whatever clue it was he was seeking. 

John hoped he would find it soon. Something was off about this house, this man, and John would be glad when the front door closed behind them. 

“Oh, yes!” Sherlock’s exclamation was pure smug satisfaction. 

“You got it?” John asked. 

“Of course I’ve got it. Suicide.” 

The blonde man straightened from the wall. “Suicide? You’re sure? Nothing fishy, then?” Was there a faint hint of relief in his voice? John couldn’t be sure. 

“Nothing at all.” Sherlock paused, glancing out through the window again. “But I wonder… Perhaps… “ He abruptly turned to look at their host. “I shall need to take a look from the room just above this, if it’s not too much trouble.” 

Later, John would swear that he had actually, physically felt the change in the atmosphere just then. The blonde man tensed, and though he kept his voice level as he spoke, the threat behind the words was as clear as if he had painted it in blood on the wall. “You said you’d only need to see the kitchen, and then you’d leave. You’ve seen the kitchen now. ” 

Sherlock eyed the man calmly, not oblivious to his hostility but completely unconcerned with it. “What is it that you’re hiding, Mr. Moran? Yes, I know your name,” he added as the man’s – _Moran’s_ – eyes flashed. “It was on the heating bill on the side-table in the corridor. Considering that this place is neat to the point of obsession, I’d say you’d just opened it and put it down there when you went to get the door.” 

In his years of military service John had learned to recognize the signs of someone about to become violent – and he could tell that Moran was getting very, very close to that now. Neither he nor Sherlock were armed, and he did not fancy their chances of taking down Moran in hand-to-hand combat. “Sherlock, perhaps we should just leave. The woman was a suicide you said; the case is solved.” 

“ _That_ case is solved. Now we have another. Let’s see… You knew who we were, and while you were surprised to see us, you were not _that_ surprised – and not _that_ good at disguising it, I might add. Once you learned what we wanted you were both relieved and suspicious; there _is_ something in your life that might warrant the investigation of Sherlock Holmes, but this was not it. Yet you couldn’t be sure that our showing up here was just a coincidence, so you agreed to let us in, both to avoid the suspicion a refusal would create and to make sure our visit was unconnected to whatever it is that you’re hiding. Now, you were at least fairly comfortable about letting us into the kitchen, but the upstairs is clearly off-limits. So, what have you got up there, hm? Stolen jewels, a nuclear missile… a stash of truly awful porn? But no – you were concerned about the time, and only let us in once you had ensured that we would stay only for a short while, so you’re worried about being interrupted. A person then – taking a shower upstairs, perhaps, thus not hearing the knocks on the door?  Now, how long does your average shower last? About seven minutes, and it’s already been longer than that since you opened the door. So, what do you say, Mr. Moran, shall we just wait here and see who is it that you’re so desperate for us not to meet? 

Moran advanced on Sherlock, his large hands clenched into fists. “Get out _now_ ,” he growled.

It seemed like a perfectly good idea to John, but before he could tell Sherlock so, they were interrupted by the sound of soft footsteps on the stairs. “Sebastian?” a voice called. “We’re out of shaving cream. You need to get me some. Sebastian?” 

There was something familiar about that voice, something that made John’s skin crawl, something that tasted bitterly of dark fears and old wounds – 

Sherlock must have recognized it, for he started violently, turning to stare at the kitchen door. Moran hissed an expletive, and then, with dark hair damp and ruffled, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, Jim Moriarty walked into the room.


	2. Chapter 2

For a moment, there was silence. Then there was a loud thud followed by a sharp crack as John slammed Moriarty into the doorframe and punched him in the face. Pressing the half-naked man back with his left arm, he raised his fist to hit him again – 

Strong hands gripped his shoulders and yanked him away. “That’s enough of that,” Moran told him coldly, placing himself between John and Moriarty. The latter looked slightly dazed as he straightened, eyes darting from John to Sherlock back to John and finally settling on Moran. “That’s funny,” he told the tall man. “That’s exactly what _you_ did when you found out that I was alive.” He looked to Sherlock. “You’d think they’d be happy to see you, but instead of kisses and _‘oooh, darling, I missed you so much and I’m so glad you’re not dead’_ , you get a black eye and are told you’re a twisted psycho bastard.” 

“You _are_ a twisted psycho bastard,” Sherlock noted matter-of-factly. He seemed to have recovered from his initial shock, and when Moriarty widened his eyes in mock-offense and mouthed _ouch_ , the consulting detective actually smiled. 

John, breathing heavily and still seeing the world through a reddish haze of disbelief and rage, wanted to punch him too. Moriarty was _alive_ , and Sherlock bloody _smiled._

“Did you fake it, or did you actually shot yourself through the cheek?” Sherlock asked idly as Moriarty rounded Moran to make his way over to the kettle on the kitchen bench, filling it up and putting it on.

“He really shot himself, the stupid git,” Moran told him, a hint of disgust in his voice. He kept his eyes locked on John, obviously not trusting him not to attack Moriarty again. _Wise, that_. “Apparently came bloody close to bleeding out, too.” 

“Close doesn’t count, Sebastian. You should know that better than most.” Moriarty turned from the kettle and gestured towards Moran. “Meet Sebastian Moran. Well, I guess you already have. Best sniper in the world. Makes good scrambled eggs, too.”

“Your… private assassin?” 

“Assassin, body-guard… cook. My John Watson.” 

“I’m your _husband_ , your twat,” Moran snarled. 

Moriarty’s eyes narrowed for a split second, but then he shrugged. “It made the name-change almost legal.” He smiled, shark-like. “James Moran. Hi!” 

John couldn’t help but to glance at the man’s hand and, sure enough, he wore a plain wedding band matched by the ring on Moran’s finger. This was too bizarre, too surreal, and entirely too much like facing Moriarty posing as Richard Brook in Kitty Reily’s apartment over three years ago. The feeling of reality slipping away - 

“Never figured you for the marrying type,” Sherlock mused. “But I guess that was rather the point of this whole exercise, wasn’t it?” 

“I knew you’d get it.” And again that smirk passing between them, Sherlock and Moriarty sharing a joke no one else could hope to understand. 

It made John sick. “Um, excuse me,” he said, fighting hard to keep his voice steady, “but would someone mind telling me what the _bloody hell_ is going on here?” 

Sherlock gave him a puzzled glance; Moriarty was clearly amused; in Moran’s eyes John thought he could detect a faint trace of sympathy. Neither man spoke. John tried again. “I don’t mean to sound petty here, but he” – a gesture towards Moriarty, who rolled his eyes and busied himself putting leaves in the tea pot – “did his bloody best to utterly _destroy_ you, Sherlock. Ruin you. _Kill_ you.” 

“Get him to kill himself,” Moriarty corrected under his breath from over pouring boiling water into the pot. “Let’s keep the details straight.” 

John ignored him, focusing on Sherlock. “I’m sorry, I really am, if I missing something _obvious_ here, but could you kindly explain to me why finding him alive seems to sodding _please_ you?” He paused, struck by sudden suspicion. “Did you _know_ he was alive?”

“No.” 

“Oh. Okay. Good. So… shouldn’t this be a time for concern then, rather than, _oh, I don’t know_ , making casual conversation?”

Sherlock gave him a blank look. “Why?” 

“What – ! _Why?_ Because he’s a bloody murderous lunatic who’s obsessed with besting you! He’s going to keep at it until he’s crushed you!”

Moriarty sniffed, back still turned. “No, I won’t. I did that already. Doing it again would be… dull. _So_ unimaginative,” he added in an aside to Moran. 

John rounded on him, snarling. “You didn’t, though, did you? Because he’s still alive, you wanker, and he fucking proved that _you’re_ the villain. You bloody _lost_!” 

“He really doesn’t get it, does he?” Moriarty asked Sherlock over his shoulder, not in the least intimidated by John’s outburst. “It must be so tiresome to have to spell everything out all the time.” 

“Careful,” Sherlock warned him, voice suddenly cold.

“Oooh, that’s right! Mustn’t insult your little pet. That’s rude of me, very rude, I’m so horribly rude… “ He turned to face John, smiling, a steaming cup in his outstretched hand. “Tea? You take it with milk, no sugar, right, John?” 

John slapped the cup away. It broke against the stove, splashing pale liquid over the wall and floor. Moran remained still by the door, but he followed John’s every move, quite obviously ready to step in if he was needed to protect his husband – employer – again. 

Moriarty smiled lazily. “Temper, temper.” 

“We should probably leave,” Sherlock said, looking from John to Moriarty and back again. “John?” 

“Yeah. Yeah.” _Let’s get the bloody hell out of here._

John half-expected Moran or Moriarty to try and stop them as he and Sherlock made their way to the front door. Instead, the two men just followed. _Like any ordinary couple politely biding their guests good-bye after a dinner party…_

“Well, it was awfully nice to see you,” Moriarty chirped. “But I don’t expect you’ll be coming around here no more.” A hint of danger to his voice, a touch of threat - 

Sherlock smiled, tight-lipped. “The situation is perfectly clear. _James._ ” He paused. “But if you – “

“No!” Moran’s shout was as sharp as it was unexpected. “No,” he repeated, stepping in front of Sherlock, staring him down. “No threats. No ultimatums. No _games_. Just leave.” 

So they left.


	3. Chapter 3

The street was still deserted, the sun still high in the sky. To John, it seemed as if the world must have turned again and again since they entered the house, but in reality it could not have been more than half an hour. “I’m calling your brother,” he announced. “Let him deal with this. _Sherlock_ - _!”_

“No, you’re not,” Sherlock informed him as he pocketed the mobile he had just snatched out of John’s hand, never breaking his stride. Before John had a chance to further object, he added: “He was bored with Jim Moriarty. He wanted out.”

“Yeah, okay. No… what?”

“The criminal mastermind routine was getting boring. Always the villain, always one step ahead, no surprises, no challenges. He wanted something new. And he needed me for that.” Sherlock smiled faintly, introvert. “Thus the gift… “

John, still more than a little rattled by the unexpected encounter, fought to keep his voice level. Fortunately, he had had a lot of practice with that since first meeting Sherlock. “I’ll just be quiet, shall I, and hope that sooner or later you’ll start making sense.”

Sherlock made a very visible effort not to sigh in exasperation. Undoubtedly _he_ had had a lot of practice with _that_ since first meeting John, though he was still not very good at it. “He can’t cope with an unfinished melody. Just like Bach.” Again, that faint, introverted smile. Damn, but it was annoying. John kept his tongue, however, as Sherlock continued. “He needed a proper ending to the tale of Jim Moriarty, the greatest criminal who ever lived. And I, as his single equal, was the only one who could provide him with one.” The detective shrugged as they turned a corner and stepped back onto the main road. “And because he _knows_ what it’s like to be bored, _truly_ bored, and desperate for distractions, he decided to leave me with on final puzzle to keep me occupied, keep me _entertained_ ; something to challenge me. And what could possibly be harder to return from than your own grave…?”

“That was a _gift_?”

“Yes. Obviously. Granted, not a very nice one, but the then again, he’s not a very nice man.”

“ _Jesus_.” John shook his head in disbelief. “He set the whole thing – crown jewels, Richard Brook, fake suicide and all – up just so he could have a ‘proper ending’? Why the hell couldn’t he simply have _walked away_?”

Sherlock gave him a look. “Because he is insane, John,” he said patiently – or as close to patiently as Sherlock could manage.

“Well. Yes. Fair point.” John glanced at the other, frowning. “And now… you want us to just leave him to play house?” He shook his head again. “Sherlock, we can’t do that.”

“Yes, we can,” Sherlock told him as he hailed a passing cab. “We have to. If we come after him, we’ll have restarted the game, restarted the _story_ , and he’ll have no choice but to play his old part. The one of a criminal mastermind leaving nothing but death and destruction in his wake.” He paused for a moment before entering the car, fishing John’s phone out of his pocket and tossing it to him. “If you want Jim Moriarty back on the streets of London, by all means, go ahead and call my brother. If not, we’ll leave James Moran and his husband alone.”

John didn’t say anything as he joined Sherlock in the backseat. But he thought to himself as the car started driving: _No. No, this won’t do at all._

—-

Sebastian waited until he was absolutely sure that Holmes and Watson had disappeared out of earshot before rounding on Jim. “What the _hell_ were they doing here?” he demanded.

Jim raised an immaculately groomed eyebrow. “How should I know? _You_ were the one who let them in after all, dear.”

“Don’t give me that fucking shit,” Sebastian growled, raising a hand to point at the still all-but-naked man. Most people would have found a growling Sebastian Moran alarming indeed, but Jim did not as much as bat an eyelid; if anything, he seemed amused. That only made Sebastian angrier. “A woman mysteriously dead right outside our fucking front door, Jim?” he asked. “Attracting the attention of the great Sherlock Holmes no less, drawing him straight to our bloody doorstep. Just a coincidence, yeah?”

“Suicide,” Jim said promptly. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“Right, because there is _no way_ you could force someone else to commit suicide.” Sebastian’s voice was thick with sarcasm.

“Of course I could, but I didn’t,” Jim told him, sounding bored. “Just drop it, Sebastian.” His dark eyes narrowed as he added: “Just as I’ve decided to drop the fact that you _talked back_ to me in the kitchen. That wasn’t very _nice_ of you, was it, pet? In front of guests and all.”

“Go to hell,” Sebastian spat. “Do you actually think that I give a shit about making you look bad in front of Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes?

Jim smirked. “My, my, Tiger, are we feeling a tad _jealous_?” The smirk faded as Jim turned to walk back up the stairs. “It’s not a very good look on you,” he called coldly over his shoulder.

Sebastian remained where he was, very still, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Was it an accident?” he asked quietly.

Jim stopped and turned to look at him, his brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“When you put the gun in your mouth and pulled the trigger, did you actually mean to survive? Or was it just an… accident?” Sebastian did not look at Jim as he waited for an answer, keeping his eyes fixed on the Richard Sharpe Shaver hung over the side-table instead.

“What kind of question is that?” Jim voice was flat.

Sebastian shrugged. “You didn’t tell me of your plan, so I’m thinking that maybe there wasn’t one.” Fuck, but it hurt, to put into words those old, nagging fears that had been lurking in the back of Sebastian’s mind ever since the day Jim returned from the dead.  “Maybe you were prepared to die on that roof.” _Leave me. For_ him _._

“I didn’t tell you of a lot of my plans,” Jim noted, and Sebastian couldn’t help but think that of all the extremely fucked up things that Jim was capable this was the one that actually scared the sniper; how Jim’s voice, like his eyes or his face or his mind, could go completely empty. Nothing there. No one home.

He swallowed hard. “Yeah, but none of the others involved you faking your own fucking suicide.” His own voice was rough, harsh, the words coming only with great difficulty.

And then Jim was standing right in front of him, and bloody hell, the man could move quickly when he wanted to, and his eyes weren’t empty anymore, they were black with rage and he was snarling. “You’re an idiot, Moran. You’re just a fucking _idiot_ , aren’t you, just like the rest, you think you’ve got me all _figured out_ , as if someone like _you_ could ever hope to understand someone like _me_.”

“But Sherlock Holmes can.”

Jim punched him. Drew his fist and slammed it into Sebastian’s shoulder, and sure, the guy was small, tiny even, but that still fucking hurt. “Get the hell out of my house,” Jim hissed.

Sebastian turned and walked out without another word, grabbing his jacket on the way and slamming the front door shut behind him.

—-

It was already well past ten and the street deserted once more, but the lights were still on in the two-storey house. John smiled mirthlessly to himself. He had figured that neither Moriarty nor Moran would be early sleepers.

Standing just outside of the reach of a lamppost’s light, the doctor fixed his gaze on the small figure slumping on a barstool in the kitchen. Moriarty, now dressed in a white tee, was typing furiously, attention completely focused on the laptop on the table in front of him.

Moran was nowhere to be seen. That didn’t matter; John was not here for him. In his pocket, the gun felt cold against his hand. He gripped it tightly, forcing himself to breathe normally, calmly –

He had not even had to come up with an excuse to get out of the flat; unless Sherlock needed something (fairly common) or was bored (very common), he often did not even notice if John was there or not. “I’m going out for a bit,” John had called from the stairs, and Sherlock had grunted and that was that. Rather than grabbing a cab – because Sherlock would find the driver, of course he would – he had talked to Molly, and when he asked her not to ask she didn’t, she just called a friend (“don’t see her all that often, really, but our mums are great friends, we played all the time when we were little”) and an hour later John was driving west in a gray Volvo. He parked the car outside a supermarket two blocks down and walked the rest of the way.

For a good five minutes now he had been standing in the shadows, watching the man in the kitchen on the other side of the street. Like this, all bad posture and tousled hair, Moriarty should not – did not – look dangerous, and still… Still, the mere sight of the scrawny man sent a shiver down John’s spine – and John Watson did not, in spite of his oft-times timid appearance, scare easily.

In one smooth motion, he drew the gun out of his pocket, aiming it at the consulting criminal’s head. One deep breath, two, three, focus, squeeze the trigger, gently -

He did not fire.

Moriarty was dangerous ( _the most dangerous criminal mind this world has ever seen_ , Mycroft’s voice echoed in his head) and insane and evil, but…

But. 

Defeated, John lowered his gun. Moriarty was evil, but John was not. He was a soldier, and he was a doctor, and he would not shoot an unarmed man in the back, no matter how twisted that man might be.

“Don’t fret about it, Doc,” a deep voice came from behind him. “You’d have been dead before you’d pulled the trigger.”

Startled, John spun around, gun raised once more. In the darkness to his right, a lighter flickered into life, and then Sebastian Moran stepped out of the shadows, taking a long drag of his cigarette. In his right hand he held a gun of his own, and it was aimed at John.

John looked from Moran to the weapon and back again. “You knew I’d come?”

“Figured you might. I would have, had the roles been reversed. Of course, I _would_ have pulled that trigger.” Lowering his gun, Moran glanced at the house at the other side of the street, at the man in the kitchen. “Besides, we had a spat.”

“Yeah? What about?”

“What do you think?” The taller man paused, hesitated. “Does Holmes think Jim had anything to do with the suicide?” he finally asked.

“No.” John blinked, a little taken aback by the question. “No, not at all.” He grimaced. “He says Moriarty wanted _out_. Wanted something new.”

Something loosened in Moran’s face then, relaxed. “Oh. All right.” Snubbing out his cigarette, he put the gun back into his jacket pocket. “Well, since you’re not killing anyone tonight, I’d better get back inside.”

“Time to kiss and make up?”

The tall man laughed quietly. “Yeah, right. That’s the way we roll.” He shook his head. “No. He _might_ let me kiss him softly and take him to bed; that’s as close to apologizing as he’ll ever come… but he’s just as likely to inform me that I’ve got a hotel room in bloody Brixton booked for the foreseeable future.” Moran shrugged. “He might just ask me if I brought him his sodding shaving cream, or he might fucking well shoot me in the head.“ He smiled thinly. “He’s Jim Moriarty, yeah? No telling with him.”

“And if he _doesn’t_ shoot you in the head?” John asked. “You’ll… what? Live happily ever after?” He tried to imagine it, and failed utterly.

Moran snorted. “Fuck that shit. No one ever does anyway. We’ll _live_. And – ,” he paused, and when he spoke again, there was a faint trace of something almost akin to wonder in his voice, “ – there _is_ happiness.”

Resting the urge to roll his eyes, John gave a short nod. “Yeah. Okay. Happiness. Got it.” He turned to leave.

“Hey,” the other man called after him. “Take my number.”

That stopped him short in his tracks. “Why?” he asked, turning back to look at the blonde man.

Moran’s face was carefully blank. “In case you have reason to think they’re getting back in touch.”

He didn’t say anything else; he didn’t need to. John saved his number, and – without being asked, without saying anything about it himself – dialed it, leaving his own on Moran’s phone.

—-

Jim did not look up as Sebastian stepped into the kitchen. He kept hammering away at his keyboard as the sniper – and Sebastian still thought of himself as one, even though he had not shot anyone in over three years – leaned against the doorframe, waiting for his boss – and Sebastian still thought of Jim as such, even though they had gotten married just a little less than three years ago – to acknowledge him.

“It wasn’t an accident,” Jim finally said, still not looking up from his computer screen.

Sebastian did not answer.

“I… “ Jim hesitated, and bloody hell, Satan must be freezing his tail off down in hell, because Jim Moriarty _never_ hesitated. “I never planned to die, exactly,” Jim continued, his voice low. “But… it was a possibility. I knew I might have to, to win the game.” He paused then, and turned to look at Sebastian. His eyes were wide and tired and very open. “But I guess I realized that there are more important things than winning. And I changed my mind.”

“Yeah?” Sebastian asked carefully, but he did not wait for an answer. Crossing the floor in a few long strides, he pulled Jim up from the chair and into his arms.

“Yeah,” Jim told him, smiling slightly as he relaxed into the embrace.

—-

“Good for you, I guess,” John muttered, watching as Moran bent down to scoop Moriarty up and carry him out of the kitchen. Just before they disappeared through the door, Moran threw a glance over his shoulder, as if to catch John’s eyes through the window and across the street.

Then they were gone, and John turned his back on the two-storey house. Leaving its two inhabitants to their pleasures, he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a sentiment expressed by Sebastian that’s more or less (mostly more) ripped from Steven King’s The Dark Tower: “And will I tell you that these three lived happily ever after? I will not, for no one ever does. But there was happiness. And they did live. […] That’s all. That’s enough.” Go read that series, it’s awesome. Okay, the ending is a bit of a letdown, but the first book in the series, The Gunslinger, has the best opening line in the history of literature, which pretty much makes up for it. Book five is one big mindfuck, but that’s cool, as long as you’re into twisted meta. I sure as hell am.


End file.
